


Get In Loser, We're Going Shopping

by shipcat



Category: Naruto
Genre: Ex-Soldier Obito, Gen, M/M, Naruto Rare Pairs, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sasori is a well-meaning jerk, thatshipcat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipcat/pseuds/shipcat
Summary: A trauma-recovering Obito struggles to deal with his mentor - the testy world-famous Sasori, who has problems of his own.





	Get In Loser, We're Going Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> Some fun I'm having with Sasori/Obito, please enjoy!

It takes a lot to stop Uchiha Obito in his tracks. 

Get disowned? Work in a fast food restaurant to make ends meet, easy. Join the military to get out of your deadlast life and end up drafted in an unexpected war? No problem. Trapped under the wreckage of a bombed out building, tears pouring over stripes of charcoal on Rin’s cheeks? He comments on the weather.

“It feels, nice...ne, Rin? The rain.” Drops plop down on the left side of his face, running tracks down the dust of his neck. “It doesn’t rain… that often…”

“No--no, no,” she chokes. “It doesn’t. It doesn’t. Obito...we’re in a desert! You.” Another sob. Her nails cracked from digging through the rubble. Kakashi unconscious mere feet away. “You idiot.” And, when she gives him a wobbly smile, it breaks his heart.

(He’s already broken in so many places.)

“Your idiot, though.” Obito tries to smile back, but falters. Salt prickles in the corner of his eyes; more water falls on his face. “It rained more at home. Rin, I want--” The radio crackles with warnings of incoming drone strikes. “I wanna go home,” he croaks. Seventeen years old and he feels like he’s five. Clinging to his mother’s dress, to Rin, as much as he can move.  _ I wanna go home.  _

Then Rin is gone, the desert disappears, but the rain remains, plastering his hair to his forehead.  _ I forgot my umbrella,  _ he thinks, standing at the curb and staring dumbfoundedly at the driver in a black sedan. Sasori stares back at him, entirely unimpressed.

“Get in loser, we’re going shopping.”

“Huh?”

“Your clothes.” Sasori gestures at Obito’s ensemble in explanation, a gaudy Hawaiian shirt with several patches stitched onto the back—a red and white fan, a crimson cloud, a purple heart on the shoulder. A pair of orange jogging pants completes the ensemble. “They’re horrible.”

“Excuse me?” Obito raises an offended brow. It would be more effective if he didn’t look like a drowned puppy.

“You’re excused.” He taps the steering wheel. Then honks. “Get in. I am  _ not _ waiting.”

“Kami.” Obito groans and face palms. But before he knows he is rounding the car, slamming the passenger door.  The leather seats squeak under him. “You’re rude, you know that?  _ Rude _ .” 

“Would a rude man sponsor a veteran?”

“For community service, maybe.” Obito wiggles his toes in his sneakers, wincing at the squelching noise. “You still didn’t tell me what you did.”

“You don’t want to know,” Sasori replies, easing the car out of park and onto the highway. 

“Yeah. What’s up with that? You seem like the moneybags type. White collar and everything.” Obito pointedly flicks the collar of his own Hawaiian shirt. Blue. “So what gives? Embezzling? Extortion? No, don’t glare at me like that. If you were gonna kill me, I would be dead already.” God knows the man is impatient. “Dumped in a gutter with only fishnet stockings.”

“Better than what you’re wearing now,” Sasori huffs, clicking on his turn signal.

“I like my clothes,” he mutters, too softly to be heard.

Stripes of street lights pass through the windshield, distorted by the fog of the storm, reminding Obito of things he’d rather forget—flickering shadows roaring through helicopter blades, an airlift with room for two. A water-eyed Rin asking him to take care of Kakashi, not to worry, to be good, to please please  _ please  _ be happy. In hindsight, an odd thing to say. A hard promise to keep. 

_ Are you watching over me, Rin?  _ He picks at the fabric of his jogging pants, letting it hit him with a wet slap. It helps him come back to himself.

Stiff like a mannequin, Sasori weaves through the traffic exactly ten miles above the speed limit. Even his impatience runs like clockwork, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in three-four time. The cool suede of the upholstery is dull, compared to the wild petals of his hair--red like roses, sweet like watermelon, glossy like the blood that won’t wash off.

_ If so… how did I end up with  _ **_this_ ** _ guy? _

They brake at a traffic stop, Sasori’s date-colored eyes glancing over at his charge. Obito quickly looks away, then back.  _ Be good, _ he tells himself, lifting his chin as if his heart isn’t shaking. “I  _ like _ my clothes,” he repeats, louder.

“And  _ I  _ don’t,” Sasori wryly responds. The light turns green. Waltzing fingers idle over the cruise controls, flicking his headlights at the car ahead, easing off the pedals and into a soft tailgate. It is a wonder that road rage hasn’t gotten them killed yet.

“No matter what people tell you, orange is not the new black.”

“Orange is literally the best color human eyes have ever seen.”

“Humans are literally the worst species on Earth.”

Can’t argue with that flavor of misanthropy. Obito rolls his eyes. “Just you wait, robot boy. We’ll grow on you. Just give us a chance.”

Sasori snorts, lips quirking in humor. “Like mold, maybe. Fungus.” He smoothly merges into the turn lane, boutique clothes stores gleaming ahead. “Ringworm.”

At that, Obito actually chuckles, which devolves into full blown knee-slapping when Sasori’s eye twitches. He isn’t a happy person, Obito can tell. He’s more likely to make someone cry than laugh, which is probably why the veteran’s cheer is so unnerving.

Parking near the entrance, Sasori slams the driver’s side door. “There’s spare clothes in a plastic bag in the back.” His desert dry voice is muffled by the glass. “Change and meet me inside.” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but rushes to the entrance. The veteran sighs deeply before unclipping his safety belt, twisting around in the seat before climbing over—first an arm, then a leg, then tumbling into the backseat in a clumsy heap.

It is a miracle that the army let him in. The Ninth Great Wonder of the World, after Sasori agreeing to be his sponsor to begin with.

Pity was the reason, he would guess--except that Sasori wasn’t sympathetic. Quite the opposite. No, he had taken one look at the Uchiha and his prosthetic arm before announcing that this was his veteran. 

Why, Obito didn’t know. He’d never know if Sasori had any say in it: The man would sooner sew his own mouth closed than divulge his secrets. It was better to just shut up, strip, and dress quickly, rather than ask any questions, like--how Sasori knew his size in pants; are these socks legally allowed to be this soft; how much did this cost, anyway; why his shirt was too tight; and where was the underwear--was he supposed to go commando? Apparently…

Dragging his feet across the asphalt, Obito finds Sasori tapping his foot by the entrance of a two-story department store, this time in four-four time. More staccato, more irate, slowing down slightly when he sees the Uchiha in a white v-neck shirt with a simple pair of dress pants.

“Really,” Obito jokes, “what’s wrong with the clothes I had?”

Besides being wet? Sasori raises a brow. “I refuse to be seen with them.”

Obito laughs, and Sasori scowls.

_ You’re faking it, _ he told Obito once, picking apart the Moonlight Sonata with his mind. Long fingers on ivory piano keys, shoulders rolling into the music. He is a genius, apparently. A piano savant with sonar ears, who can hear mice squeak from a mile away, and even complains that the cheerful  _ ding! _ of the greeting bell is unbearably out of tune. Obito can only shrug and throw his good arm over Sasori’s back. But it’s his scarred face that Sasori peeks up at, eyes piercing. 

“How many episodes have you had today?” he offhandedly asks, shooing away a retail worker. “I saw, in the car. I counted at least two.”

_ Please, be good. Be happy. _

His smile wavers. 

_ You’re faking it. _

When Obito looks up, Sasori has slipped out from under him and is digging through a clothes rack two times his size. He pushes through the suddenly thick air, legs lead. His pulse skyrockets when he sees the price. 

“That—“ Obito stops. Starts. “That is definitely  _ not _ on sale.”

“Hm.” Sasori holds up a tan trench coat to the outline of Obito, then shakes his head and tosses it to the side, muttering, “no good, too loose, doesn’t flare out at the waist… no, no, no…” 

Riffling through the rest of the selection, he throws out several other pieces, before fishing something purple from the back. He flips through the tags, eyes gleaming. 

“Here.” Sasori shoves it at Obito, then marches off to another section of the store. A cleared throat and a tapped foot later, and Obito scurries after, war forgotten.

“Hey, I’m not—are you listening? How do you think I’m paying for this? Sass? … Sasori!”

But by then the musician is gone, red head diving into a sea of blouses, clothes rippling in his wake. A sighing Obito collapses in a seat next to a short-haired man, unaware of brown eyes peeking out to make sure the veteran is still there.

“You’re whipped too.” The stranger flips a coin in his coat pocket, Obito startling at the jingle.

“... something like that.”

Safely hidden several aisles away, Sasori pulls out his phone.

‘ _ He’s better, _ ’ he texts Hidan, ‘ _ I distracted him.’ _

Knowing that he will be waiting for a reply, Sasori looks up at Obito. His jaw clenched. Brows furrowed, twisted whorls spiraling into the right half of his face and down his neck. A eyepatch on the other half. Asymmetrical in every sense of the word, theoretically ugly—

—and yet, interesting. Less offensive to his aesthetics than one would think. Uchiha was unique, one of a kind, and ultimately  _ his _ responsibility. 

Whether this little venture will pan out has yet to be seen.

His phone finally buzzes. ‘ _ Fucking superb you funky little heathen. Owe you one.’  _ Then vibrates again. ‘ _ You know what happened?’ _

_ ‘No _ .’ I have an idea. ‘ _ I will find out shortly _ .’ But not tell you.

‘ _ Bless _ .’

‘ _ Keep your God to yourself _ ,’ Sasori sharply replies, snapping his phone case shut.

Whatever his motivations, he plays the part of a doting mentor, grabbing anything that catches his eye—slacks, dress shirts, even a nice blazer jacket, all in shades of tan, navy, and black. Things Obito would hate. Things that might actually score him a second interview, or a job offer.

In less than five minutes, Sasori has a half dozen hangers hooked around his finger and a pile of casual polos on his shoulder, when he beelines to Men’s Formal Wear. He glances back—Obito displeased but not distressed, a stranger chatting him up—before dipping into the tie display.

Running his free hand down the line of fabrics, Sasori wonders. He imagines, arithmetically, the silhouette of a suit, from polished leather to crooked smile. One wink, and Obito can have any salary he wants, if he’s quick about it, if he’s charming. A foot in the door, one step from rehab, and he’s out of Sasori’s hair for good. 

“I should be glad,” he says to himself, testing the fabric of a red silk tie. A nice weight. Cool and smooth. Professional. Buy this, wrap it in a neat little bow around Obito’s neck, shove him at the classifieds to seek work. A poke here, a prod there, and soon enough, his probation would be over. Sasori would be free.

And yet, that man did not have the common sense to check the weather before he went out, or go back for his umbrella when he saw it was raining. Sasori had watched him walk through the deluge, expression distant. When he looked up towards the heavens, water streaming down his cheeks, it was impossible to tell tears from rain. Maybe that was the point.

The tie hisses against his palm, falling in with the others. 

Then he turns on his heel, stalking back to the center of the store, where Obito is chatting amiably with a middle-aged man about their respective wives.

“He is a lying bachelor,” Sasori declares. 

“Actually, Rasa,” Obito twists in his chair, cupping his mouth conspiratorially. “We’re  _ dating _ ,” he stage whispers, before Sasori dumps two armfuls of clothes over him.

Rasa raises an eyebrow, eerily similar to how Sasori did earlier. “Trouble in paradise, Sasori?”

“Who are you even?” He turns on Rasa, falters. “No,” he answers himself. “I know, don’t care. Shut up. Obito, we’re leaving.”

“Yes, Sir,” Obito jokingly replies, clothes hangers click-clacking as he stands up. He pops off a cheeky goodbye to Rasa, who shakes his head, turning to greet a glowing blond woman. She’s wearing a maternity dress, Obito notes, following after the clipped footsteps of a pianist, whistling.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sasori mutters at him, pushing through an overcrowded aisle. 

“And horrible, and moldy,” Obito offers, stopping when the other halts in front of him, turning around.

“Even fungus has a use,” Sasori replies, voice sand-dry. “Antibiotics, statins, immunosuppressants—”

“—toppings for salad, cheese—”

“You want me to eat you?”

“What?”

“What?” Sasori gives Obito a strange look, pausing over his scars. The sharp jawline, the marblesque features of the left side of his face, the geometric lines on his right; the way his prosthetic hand pokes out of the pile of clothes, plastic gleaming. “No. No. What I mean is…” That you are more helpful than harmful. 

It seems like the right thing to say, and the right time to say it, except that the words are too heavy for his tongue to flounder through; too kind, too certain, too weak to admit. 

Sasori bites down the compliment before it chokes him, running a hand through his bangs. He huffs when they fall back into his face. “Whatever. Nevermind.”

“Well… okay then.” Now it is Obito’s turn to look at Sasori weirdly. Then again, Sasori is weird—eccentric, he insists—so maybe this is to be expected. Maybe he should just change the subject. 

“Sooo… how did that Rasa guy know you?”

“He’s not my ex.”

_...he’s obviously your ex, _ Obito thinks, remembering the blonde woman who was with him; how Rasa kissed her cheek and touched her stomach; how he looked back at Sasori, disappointed.

They are clearly more than exes. 

Out of the silence, a melodious voice rings out.

_ “...and, as I was changing, I thought of a couple names—Tama for a boy, Temari for a girl.” _ A low murmur in response, and Obito hears her name, Karura. Sasori’s face twists darkly.

“Hey, are you—” A grip on his shoulder. Sasori jerks up, slapping it off before abruptly storming away.

“...okay,” Obito finishes, hand dangling in the air. “Guess not, huh.”

It shouldn’t sting like this. Prosthetics shouldn’t hurt. 

No. Not like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Truly one of my OTPs, would love to hear what you think of these two damaged fools. Leave a kudos/comment if you can?
> 
> My [Tumblr](thatshipcat.tumblr.com).
> 
> My [PillowFort](pillowfort.io/thatshipcat).


End file.
